Granny Torrelli Makes Soup Page 5

  What does Marco have to do with Violetta? I ask.

  Ah, Granny Torrelli says, everything! She waves her hand at the tomatoes. Tomatoes in the pot, she directs. We obey. Stir. Tomato paste. Two cans of water. Stir.

  Now where were we? she says.

  Marco, Bailey says.

  Ah, si, si, Marco. So Marco comes to stay next door, and Marco finds me very enchanting. Really, that is the word he used: enchanting. It’s different in Italian, but you understand what I’m saying? I am enchanting!

  That Granny Torrelli makes me laugh. She makes Bailey laugh, too.

  So Marco is at my house day and night, hanging around like a sick donkey, please will I come out and walk with him, please will I come for dinner, please, please, please.

  Bailey’s head is tilted upward again, his thinking pose.

  Granny Torrelli flicks her fingers at the red pot, bubbling with all the good smells. Bay leaf. Oregano, two pinches. Salt, three pinches. Pepper, lots.

  We toss it all in, stir.

  Bailey says, And what did Pardo think of Marco?

  Granny Torrelli claps her hands together. Pardo hated him! Couldn’t stand the sight of him!

  I am trying to picture it. There is a little play going on in my head. There is Pardo swooning over Violetta, and Granny Torrelli monster-cutting Violetta’s hair, and Violetta ending up looking like a movie star, and then Marco moving in and swooning over my granny Torrelli, and Pardo hating Marco.

  Bailey is nodding. I get it, he says. The shoe is on the other foot now, right?

  Yes, how you say? Bull’s-eye? You hit a bull’s-eye, Bailey boy. At first, I do not get it, though, Granny Torrelli says. At first, I think, “Why is my life such a mess? Why did that Violetta have to come and steal Pardo’s heart, and why did this Marco boy have to come and be such a nuisance?”

  And when she says that, I am thinking, Why did that Janine girl have to come? Why, why, why? And I am wanting to hear more, but Granny Torrelli says, Stop. Meatballs.

  She pushes a bowl in front of Bailey, motions for me to get the ground meat and eggs and salt and onions, and soon we are mushing our hands in the meat mush, squishing it and squeezing it, and the garlic-onion-spareribs-bay-leaf-oregano-tomatoes are swirling in the big pot, and all the smells are wrapping around us, and I am dizzy with it, with the smells and the squished meat and the play going on in my head.

  And I want to know everything, everything: What happened with Violetta and Pardo and Marco and Granny Torrelli, and what will happen with me and Bailey and Janine, and why is there no Marco who finds me enchanting?

  THE YELLOW HOUSE . . .

  What happens next is so strange that I wonder if it is the play in my head and not what is really happening.

  I am standing there with my hands in the meatball mush, and Bailey’s hands are right there in the bowl with mine, and I see a big truck coming slowly down the street, a moving van. It stops across the street, three doors down.

  I don’t believe it, I say.

  What? Bailey says.

  Granny’s eyes follow mine. She stares out the window, smiles a little smile.

  Moving van, I say. Looks like it’s stopping in front of that empty house almost across from yours, Bailey, the yellow one.

  Very funny, Bailey says.

  No, really, Bailey, really, really. I take my hands out of the mush, go to the sink, stare out the window. A car pulls up behind the moving van. Two cars. In one: a woman and a little girl. In the other car: a man and two boys, maybe twins? Maybe my age, maybe a little older.

  Bailey has joined me at the sink. Tell me, he says.

  I describe what I see. I tell him about the moving van and the two cars, about the man and woman and little girl. I tell him—oh, how casually I tell him—about the two boys, maybe twins.

  I don’t believe it, he says. He is agitated, annoyed, hating that he can’t see for himself if I am telling the truth.

  I beam at Granny Torrelli. Well, well, well, I think. Double Marco!

  MEATBALLS . . .

  Bailey is back at the bowl, snatching bits of meat goo and rolling them into balls and dropping them straight into the red pot full of bubbling sauce.

  Er, Bailey, Granny Torrelli says, gently, gently. The little meatballs are feeling bruised.

  Hmph, Bailey mumbles. He slaps another meatball together, drops it in the pot. Hot red sauce splashes up, catching him on the wrist. He makes a face but says nothing.

  Wanna go over and meet the new people? I ask Bailey.

  Can’t, he says. I’m making meatballs. I thought you were helping.

  Granny swings her head from Bailey to me, a funny little expression on her face, and I can’t quite read what it means. Then she says, Gotta take a little pause, and off she goes to the bathroom again, leaving me there with Bailey, the bruised meatballs, and the splashing sauce.

  I put my hands in the bowl, make a meatball, gently, gently, and place it in Bailey’s hand so he can put it in the pot. His hand floats there a minute, as if he is assessing the gift I’ve just given him. Then he plops it into the pot and says, I thought you were going outside to introduce yourself to the new neighbors.

  I hear an ice king in his voice.

  My first impulse is to say, No, Bailey, I am staying with you here forever, but something stops me, some little sly fox who has replaced my tiger.

  I say nothing, which Bailey hates, I know it. Usually if I stop talking and he doesn’t know why, he will put his hands on my face to read my expression, but his hands are sticky with meatballs, and so he does not put them on my face. I know it is mean of me to be quiet right now, but the sly fox has taken over, and I am no longer in control of my Rosie self.

  Bailey reaches for the bowl, finds my hands in it, rests his hands on mine for the quickest second, then pushes my hands to one side and grabs some meatball mush.

  I glance out the window. The new family is standing on the lawn talking to the truck drivers. One of the maybe-twin boys is dribbling a basketball.

  Huh, I say to the air. One of the new boys is dribbling a basketball.

  So? Bailey says.

  My sly fox pounces. I’ve always wanted to learn how to play basketball, I say. And then, because my fox is really mean, I add, Maybe they will teach me.

  Plop! I hear another meatball drop into the pot. Plop, plop! Two more.

  Granny Torrelli reappears from her pause. She studies me, studies Bailey, frowns a little. How’s that sauce coming, Bailey? How are those meatballs?

  Couldn’t be better, Bailey says, in an ice-king voice.

  NOT SO FAST . . .

  All the meatballs are in the pot, and Bailey is stirring. Are we done? he says.

  Granny Torrelli says, Let’s see, cavatelli made and resting. Sauce and meatballs bubbling.

  Bailey takes off his apron. Well, he says, I guess I’ll be going.

  My fox disappears. I don’t want Bailey to go. Maybe Granny Torrelli senses this, because she says, Wait a minute, Bailey boy, don’t you want to hear the end of Violetta-and-Pardo-and-Marco?

  Bailey hesitates. He doesn’t look too happy.

  Stay, Bailey, I say.

  You two can wash up the bowls while I talk, Granny Torrelli says.

  I wash, Bailey dries, Granny Torrelli talks.

  So where were we? Ah, si, Marco hanging around like the sick donkey, me being enchanting. I am a little slow to figure it out, but pretty soon I realize that after my buddy, my pal Pardo has seen Marco hanging around my house, Pardo always comes over, pays a little attention, tells me Marco is stupido.

  I am washing the meatball bowl, and already I am translating Pardo into Bailey, and I smile. I stare out the window at the maybe-twin boys, and I wonder if they will both find me enchanting, and if Bailey will tell me they are stupido.

  Granny Torrelli shifts in her seat, props her feet. Now Violetta starts noticing Marco. She is saying, “Oh, Marco, you’re so smart, you’re so handsome, you’re so strong, will you help me
with this and will you help me with that?”

  I pass the meatball bowl to Bailey to dry, and I am thinking, What? That Janine girl might set her sights on the maybe-twin boys, too? What a lot of nerve!

  And no kidding, just as I think this, I look out the window and there is that bouncy Janine girl, bouncing down the street, waving at the new neighbors. My tiger self wants to leap through the window, pounce. Part of me wants to dash out the door, beat her to it, and part of me wants to stay with Bailey and hear about Violetta and Marco and Pardo.

  Bailey looks puzzled, I’m not sure why. He says to Granny Torrelli, The web is getting very tangled.

  Si, si, Bailey, very true. Granny Torrelli’s voice softens. And then there was the Gattozzi baby.

  Who? I say, my head all jumbled, not able to concentrate as I see Janine bouncing, bouncing, bouncing along, and there she is right in front of the new neighbors. She is bending to cozy up with the little girl, smiling, tilting her head this way and that. I turn away, can’t bear to watch.

  Granny Torrelli has a sad look on her face. The Gattozzis, they lived in our village, very nice family, with a new baby girl, most beautiful baby you ever saw in your life, but she got sick, very sick, and everyone was praying for her. I go to see the Gattozzis. I take them zuppa from my mother. They let me see the little baby, very flushed in her little basket, and I put my hand in and the baby grabs it and holds on. Her fingers are so hot and they hold very tight to my hand.

  I sit beside Granny Torrelli, take her hand. I am thinking, Please don’t tell me that baby died.

  It is quiet in the kitchen, with only the sounds of the bubbling sauce and the hum of the refrigerator.

  I sit with the baby, Granny Torrelli says. I sit all day long. She won’t let go of my fingers. Her parents let me hold her, and still she is clinging to my fingers, and all the time I am sitting there with that little sick baby, I am not thinking of Violetta or Pardo or Marco. I am only thinking the baby must get better, the baby must get better.

  Bailey now joins us at the table. His expression is soft, gentle. His hand slips across the table and taps Granny Torrelli’s wrist. She lets his hand stay there, while my fingers rest on her other hand.

  It is so quiet and so sad there in the kitchen with our hands all on the table: Granny’s wrinkly soft ones, and Bailey’s strong ones and my normal Rosie ones.

  THE BABY . . .

  Granny Torrelli sniffs. Stir, she says. I get up, stir the sauce, breathe in its spicy smell, and return to the table.

  So, Granny Torrelli says, the Gattozzi baby. I sit there all afternoon, holding the baby, until my sister comes to get me. The next morning I go back, with a bowl of pasta from my mother. The baby seems a little better, her mother says. I hold the baby, and her little hand clings to my fingers. And I start singing to her. Granny Torrelli looks up at me and Bailey. Maybe you think I am silly?

  We both shake our heads. No, we do not think she is silly. While she is talking, it’s as if I am there in the village of my granny Torrelli, and I am holding the baby and I am singing to her.

  I am singing the songs of my mother and my grandmother, Granny Torrelli says, little lullabies I thought I’d forgotten. I sit there until my sister comes to get me again. Next morning, I go back, with more zuppa. Baby is gone! Parents gone! No one home! I am frantic! I sit on the steps and I sob like a little baby.

  And while I am listening to Granny Torrelli, I am frightened and I fear that I, too, might sob there in the kitchen with Bailey and Granny Torrelli. I look at Bailey. His head is down, and I want to lift it, to see his face.

  Granny Torrelli says, And while I am sitting there sobbing, I don’t even hear the parents come up the walk. I jump when the mother taps my arm. And I think I am going to have a heart attack because there they are, holding the baby, and the baby is smiling, and they say, “It’s okay, she’s better.” And they let me hold her, and that little Gattozzi baby holds my fingers so tight and I sing to her and I am so happy at that moment.

  A big relief sigh comes out of me, and Bailey lifts his head, and I see that he, too, is relieved.

  And here is the thing, Bailey and Rosie, when I went home that day, I felt as if I was ten years older. I saw Violetta on her way to Pardo’s and I saw Marco down the lane looking for me, and I can’t explain it, but I felt as if my life was bigger now.

  Bailey gets up, stirs the sauce.

  And here is the ending, Granny Torrelli says, or the beginning, depending on how you look at it: Soon Violetta went back to her regular home, and Marco went back to his, and it was me and Pardo again. She shrugged. Maybe it is not such an exciting story?

  I tap Granny Torrelli’s hand. It was just right.

  I walk Bailey to the door and remind him that tomorrow is the pasta party. My tiger and fox and ice queen must be asleep, because I hear myself say, Maybe we should invite Janine?

  Bailey says, Maybe you want to invite the new neighbors, too?

  I touch his arm. I say, I don’t care if the whole town comes, as long as you come, Bailey boy.

  He gives a little smile and feels his way down the steps and turns to wave.

  I wave back, even though he can’t see my wave. And I am thinking that I cannot control who is going to come and who is going to go, and who will stay my buddy, my pal, and who will find me enchanting, and oddly I feel relieved.

  THE PASTA PARTY . . .

  It is Sunday, and Granny Torrelli and I set the table in the dining room, twelve places. We use the good china, which used to be Granny Torrelli’s. It has tiny red roses on it and little green vines. Carmelita brought zinnias from her garden: red, yellow, orange, purple, and they are in a vase on the table.

  Mom and Pop are upstairs getting dressed, and Bailey and Carmelita are in the kitchen heating up the sauce and the water for the cavatelli. Our house smells so good, looks so good.

  And soon people are pouring in the door: first bouncy Janine with a box of chocolates and then Mr. and Mrs. Jefferson, the new neighbors, with their little girl, Lucille, and their two boys, who turn out not to be twins. They are Johnny (my age) and Jack (a year older). Lucille hands my mom a basket of fruit, and my mom bends down to thank her.

  It is good that we are all crowded together in our little house, because if there were more room we would be more awkward with each other, I think.

  Mom and Pop are chattering with Mr. and Mrs. Jefferson, Granny and Carmelita are chia-chia-chia-ing in the kitchen, Lucille is running from room to room, checking everything out.

  Janine is bouncing from person to person, flashing her white teeth, and Bailey is talking with Johnny and Jack, and I am mostly listening and watching, enjoying that our house is filled up with people talking and laughing.

  I carry the steaming bowl of cavatelli, covered with the beautiful red sauce, to the table, and Granny Torrelli brings the bowl of meatballs and spareribs, and Carmelita brings the extra sauce, and Bailey has the cheese, and Pop brings the salad, and Mom pours water in everyone’s glass.

  And Granny Torrelli bows her head and says grace, and at the end, she blesses her mama and papa and all her sisters and brothers and everyone at the table, and then she clinks her glass and says, Here’s to Rosie and Bailey, who made our delicious meal.

  And everyone raises a glass, and Bailey and I smile, and Granny Torrelli nods her head and says, Tutto va bene.

  All is well.

  Welcome to Pickleberry Street! Granny Torrelli says, and everyone laughs.

  And I look around the table at all the people and then I look up at the ceiling and I think about Granny Torrelli’s mama and papa and sisters and brothers and Pardo and my grandpa Torrelli, all up in heaven having their own pasta party, and my world seems a little bigger.

  I look across the table again at Granny Torrelli, who is raising a forkful of cavatelli to her mouth. She pauses and says, again, but this time only to me: Tutto va bene.

  And she is right.

  Granny Torrelli Makes Soup

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  The Inspiration for Granny Torrelli Makes Soup

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  Q&A with Sharon Creech

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  Read an excerpt from Sharon’s novel

  The Great Unexpected

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  The Inspiration for

  Granny Torrelli Makes Soup

  When I learned that my daughter was expecting her first child, I began thinking about what it would be like to be a grandparent. In remembering my own grandparents, it seemed that most of my memories of my grandmothers swirled around kitchens and food. There was something important—more important than the meals being made—that took place in those kitchens, and I wanted to explore that.

  Granny Torrelli refers to her own childhood friend as Pardo, which in “real life” was the name of my grandfather. Although I don’t remember making zuppa with my grandmother, we did make cavatelli and sauce, just as Rosie, Bailey, and Granny Torrelli do in this story. And Rosie’s favorite salad (“the one with oranges”) was also my favorite when I was Rosie’s age. I kept seeing images of my Italian grandmother, with her elfish smile and quick wit, and those images evolved into the character of Granny Torrelli.